Smoking in the Dark
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Rated for Adult Language concerning sexual content and profanity. Nothing graphic. Webster and Liebgott friendship piece. No slash. Please Read and Review.


A/N: I got off my ass and wrote more Webgott friendship stuff because _Camreyn_ mentioned it. I like this too. As for the weird mood Webster's in, it's because I was listening to this one song that felt exactly like it.

Please Read and Review! Thank you.

No Slash. 

Disclaimer: Didn't happen. Not mine. Don't sue.

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Smoking in the Dark

Webster smoked in the dark. He listened to the night buzz. He watched the unmoving silhouettes. He looked down just so his eyelashes would brush against his skin. He looked back up, took the cigarette out of his lips, held it in his fingers, put it back in his mouth. Breathed in smoke, breathed smoke out. He should know better. He was a Harvard boy. Smoke killed the lungs. He kept sucking on the cigarette. His profile belongs in a sex scene. His heart belongs under floorboards – not like a Poe poem. Like his own silent thought. And his guts – where do those belong? Maybe in the earth. Yeah. That's what he felt. Smoke. Suck. Inhale. Exhale.

He wanted to fuck. (In. Out. No, that was his cigarette and his lips.) He almost smiled. Funny how smoking was like sex. Damn, when was the last time he'd gotten laid? Too long ago. He thinks that maybe some girl in Aldbourne did him the last time he was there. Webster never remembers sex. It's never any good. It's never like making love. He's a man. He doesn't have sex to make love. He has sex to find love. And so far, he hasn't found shit. But it feels good for a while. Like drinking. Webster doesn't drink alot like some of the other guys. He's not a drunk. But he feels like one now. He feels like Hemmingway now, sucking on this cigarette like he's got nothing left in life.

Someone once told him he was a good lover. He doesn't think about that. He doesn't think about anything when he has sex. He just does it. He just pretends like the girl means something, like she's something he really wants. And maybe he supposed he does, in a way. But what he really wants is touch. He likes to be touched. He needs to be touched. He thrives on it. He never shows it because that would be weak, especially in the middle of a war. But when he's bedding some girl, he savors every minute of it, every single time she touches him. All he needs are her fingers in his hair, her lips on his, her arms around him when they make out. But he always finishes it off, goes the whole way, because that's what he's supposed to do. Although, often, he would be satisfied with 2nd base.

He doesn't know why he's thinking of this now. Oh, that's right. He's smoking. That's what it is. He's brooding in the dark. He wonders if one of these German girls would sleep with him. By the way they look at him, he doubts it. He doesn't want them much anyway. Not after finding that Jewish camp. But maybe one night, if they didn't turn the lights on, if he drank a little, he would enjoy one of them. He listens to himself exhale. He hardly ever smokes like this. And he doesn't know why he's doing it now. He just feels it. And he goes with what he feels.

He's not so clean anymore. When he first returned to easy company a few weeks ago, he stood out because he was so damn clean. Everyone else looked like hell. Especially Malarkey. Jesus, he felt sorry for the guy. He even vaguely missed Muck himself. He remembered Muck best out of Malarkey's lost friends. He'd been so similar to Malarkey. It had been easy to confuse them back at Toccoa. Jesus, that was a long time ago. He sucked on his cigarette.

"What are you doin'?" Webster glanced over his shoulder. He recognized Liebgott's voice.

"Smoking," said Webster.

"Yeah, I can see that. But what are you doing it out here for?" Liebgott was standing next to him now. Webster shrugged, but no one could see it in the dark.

"Felt like being alone. In the black."

"Jesus, Web. You're starting to sound all depressed." Webster grinned for the first time in a while, and it felt strange and fake. Liebgott sighed and searched the night for something he knew. The stars were far away. Everything seemed far away. Webster dragged the cigarette from his mouth and blew out the flurry of smoke and let his hand hang down for a minute. Not even the cigarette gave off any light here. Webster liked it. It was almost like sleep. His eyes could rest from life.

"It's late," said Liebgott.

"No shit," said Webster. Smoke. Inhale. Exhale. Drop.

"You okay?" Webster smiled cynically.

"Since when do you give a fuck?"

"You don't need me to give a fuck to answer the question." It wasn't rough this time. It was gentle. Since when the hell was Liebgott gentle?

"I'm as okay as everyone else, Joe." In. Drag. Out. Blow. "As okay as you." The darkness was strangely comforting, like a real blanket in a real bed. Sometimes Webster felt like all he needed was a blanket. It could be enough. It could suffice for a human being. At least, that's what he told himself sometimes. He knew it was bullshit.

"Why are you so fucking okay, huh, Web?" Liebgott sounded like Liebgott. Webster hung his head and shook it. No one else sounded like Liebgott. "Since when are you fucking okay?"

"You're saying I'm not, aren't you?" Webster almost found it funny. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Lift. Suck. Inhale. Exhale.

"Fuck yeah, I'm saying you're not." Webster kept grinning in the dark. Liebgott was good at sounding like he cared. "You were okay when you first came back, and now all of a sudden there's this cynical, brooding bullshit. You're the only one who's not fucked up 'cuz of Bastogne, so don't you fucking go there, Webster." The Jew actually sounded pissed. His voice had risen, but it wasn't anywhere near loud.

"Don't you wish I were, Joe?" the Harvard boy asked. "Don't you wish I had followed your sorry ass to Bastogne and gotten all fucked up like you, so I could have a reason to ache?" He dragged those words like his cigarette, long and stretched and easy. Not a care in the fuckin' world.

"I don't know, Web, do you?"

"Don't gimme that bull shit." Webster shifted his weight again. He suddenly felt heavy and leaden. "You've always wanted it, Joe. You've always been pissed because of it."

"I'm not the one who's pissed out here in the dark," said Liebgott.

"Oh, really? Because it seems to me that you're standing here, in the dark, pissed. Or maybe I'm just fucking schizophrenic now."

"Jesus," Liebgott whispered. He ran his hand through his hair before lifting his head up to look at Webster's shape again. Webster threw his cigarette aside and began to walk ahead, into the dark. He didn't get very far, before he sunk down into the grass. He sat with his shoulders drooping and his head hung and his arms limp in his lap. He sighed. No more smoke. He subconsciously heard Liebgott follow but didn't quite realize it; suddenly, he was exhausted.

The Jew plopped down behind him and lay his head on Webster's back, brow in between shoulder blades. He closed his eyes and exhaled. Webster's eyes were shut now too. Liebgott's hands found Webster's back and cupped around the sides, his thumbs running down Webster's spine. Webster didn't have the energy to question this random act, and besides, it felt good. Someone was finally touching him without any sex involved. Liebgott was just doing it to make him feel better. Because Liebgott knew the ache. Liebgott needed touch too. Under the rough, tough bull shit. Because Liebgott was a man. And he hadn't found love either. If that made any fucking sense at all.

The Jew kept running his thumbs up and down Webster's spine, kept breathing on Webster's back. He kept going until he felt tired too, until Webster's exhaustion spread to him. Then, he just moved in and lay against Webster's back, cupping his body to match his friend's, wrapping his arms around the Harvard boy. Webster never opened his eyes. He was almost asleep, sitting there. Liebgott began to doze off, head on Webster's shoulder.

"Fuck you," said Webster.

"Fuck you," Liebgott echoed, not even listening. Webster sunk down to his right. Liebgott didn't let go. Webster liked being held. Liebgott was fine holding. They fell asleep in the dark, dark grass, and the cigarette didn't bother lighting it on fire.


End file.
